


Dreams and Sewing Machines

by Sadeyes Badguys (Summerfields)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety, Dark, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-05 01:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12179961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Summerfields/pseuds/Sadeyes%20Badguys
Summary: What astounded Derek the most after he had gotten over the initial shock, after he’d stayed up endless nights and powered through dreams of flames and death, was the all-encompassing rage.





	Dreams and Sewing Machines

What astounded Derek the most after he had gotten over the initial shock, after he’d stayed up endless nights and powered through dreams of flames and death, was the all-encompassing rage.

Even after he’d shot Kate’s brains out of her skull the anger didn’t seem to diminish in the slightest. If anything, it was escalating. His hands kept shaking and his gaze kept wandering, and he’d punch through his brick walls until blood dripped off his knuckles.

He’d go for a walk in the park only to be angered by the laughs and smiles on other people’s faces. How could they be happy when Derek’s family had just been murdered and his home had been burnt to ashes? Couldn’t they see how cruel the world was just because it hadn’t happened to them?

Derek felt battered inside. The boy who used to weather abuse and live through the hurt, who used to stay silent in the hardest of times and look danger in the eye, was crying into his pillow at night.

He was paranoid, constantly listening for the sound of cops marching up the stairs to drag him away for a lethal injection. _‘Lunatic arrested for cold-blooded murder of ex-girlfriend’_ Derek could already see the headlines.

He lost his job. Apparently you can’t call in sick for three weeks in a row without a doctor’s certificate. Derek had already declined all offers of therapy and compassionate leave so he was left in his apartment, crippled by loss and burning with rage.

It was just a sip at first, a glass of red wine with the tenderloin pizza he’d bought with his never-ending heritage. Two shots of whiskey and he could go to the grocery store without having to avert his gaze, and he could keep his back to the knife section without looking over his shoulder.

It wasn’t long before he started going out, numbed by alcohol, mumbling through conversations at bars and nightclubs.

He laughed for the first time in what felt like years when a guy named Jackson was scolded for making an offhand comment about the bartender’s ass. Derek felt better now, he realized. He’d be okay eventually.

But the day after he’d wake up with emptiness inside. What had he become? A twenty-six-year-old, a murderer, with no friends, no career, and no fulfillment whatsoever. He hated himself, and he stayed in bed with that familiar wrath rearing its ugly head. He was supposed to become something, he was supposed to have an impact and _be brave_. Like his mother had always told him.

Now he was spitting on their graves, wasting the life that they’d given him.

That night he pulled a gun to his head, counted down to ten with tears running down his face, hands trembling until he couldn’t hold his arm up. Worthless. He threw the gun into the framed picture of his family, shards of glass flying everywhere, piercing his skin and his furniture.

Two shots of whiskey were far from enough now. He downed a bottle of red wine and stumbled down the stairs, the cold air crashing into his face when he stepped out through the door. He needed something else, something to take him away for a while, just a little while now.


End file.
